


A Wind There Came

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:54:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26279770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: by Lady EMirkwood, year 3017 of the Third Age. Legolas, Aragorn and a moment of parting.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Kudos: 5
Collections: Least Expected





	A Wind There Came

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien owns Middle-earth and everything on it, New Line Cinema owns their interpretation of Tolkien's work. I own nothing but my imagination. No profit, no offence, just participation in a collective fantasy.
> 
> Story Notes: 1)Thanks to Eruantale for betaing! :-)  
> 2)Feedback greatly appreciated and dearly cherished.

He is leaving.

Any day, any moment the guest chair reserved for him in my father's hall will be empty, the surrounding Mirkwood will be quiet and the trees won't tell where he is gone. He always stays only for a short while, only to go away again and to leave behind traces that I alone will see: a dark strand of hair under a tree where he slept, an overturned small stone beside the brook that runs through the woods, a sprinkling of ash carried in the sole of his boot from a fire grown cold long ago.

He stirs in his sleep, a muscle below his eyebrow twitches and he breaths a sigh into the cool night air. He's so tangible, so real, flesh and skin and garment, strong will under thin layers of sleep. Yet to my eyes he's like a ghost or delusion, gone already.

My time on Middle-earth may be drawing to an end, but his was never more than an inaudible whisper in the ear of the eternal.

The knot of the night is unravelling into the morning. He lies beside the dying fire as I keep watch. His sleep is restless and wary, like my senses that filter noises, scents, movements. We're far enough from the borders of my father's realm to be in danger, should anything unexpected come our way. No matter how skilled wanderers of the wild, an Elf and a mortal man are a poor match to any enemy that might have the advantage of surprise or superior number on their side.

I look at his face, his coarse and strong features that seem marked by some unspoken sorrow. His hair falls in dark tangles and a small vein pulsates on his neck. A strange feeling of belonging flickers in my chest, but before I can catch it and look it in the eye, it hides from me.

When he first came to Mirkwood years ago in search of that creature Gollum, I hardly noticed him. One day he was there, the next day he was gone, and I forgot. Or didn't, because nothing is ever really forgotten, but that memory was buried under piles of lush moist leaves and drops of water and songs and scents of starry nights. He was but another ranger, passing by on his endless journeys through the landscape that had become the image of his life - the cave that sheltered him from a storm, the river that washed the stains of a battle off him, the barren plain that exposed him to any eyes that might be watching, friendly or hostile. He was no longer young but worn out by the strains of the road, another human whose life-span would come to an end when he had hardly learned how to speak and walk.

But I was reminded. He kept coming back. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim. Estel was the Elvish name he wore like a cloak when he wished to remain unknown. He moved silently and skilfully like an Elf, he knew of woods and winds and earth. But he was no Elf. His name was Aragorn, and he was of Isildur's blood lineage. In his footsteps a stalk of grass fell upon another, small twigs were broken, leaves rustled in an unending whisper that rumoured of what was to come. I started to see in his comings and goings a faint outline, hardly visible patterns that were running towards a larger story.

And somehow, I became a part of that story. Once, twice, again I found myself keeping him company on his journeys through the darker parts of the forest, in Rhovanion, in the vales of the Great River. Not really knowing why he had chosen me or I him, somewhere along the way we grew towards each other, felt our way through the unknown and found a friendship.

Like a spider may patiently and imperceptibly spin glimmering fabrics amongst tree branches, years have woven a net of translucent strings between us. Delicate, yet firm and demanding strings that grow when you've lost the track of the time you've spent with someone: tilt your head in a certain way and I know immediately where your mind is set today, move your hand and I look before I know I'm looking, stir to take a step and I already follow.

Words are caught in that web until they grow dimmer, fewer, more fragile. Until the meaning of them starts to sink into an oblivion.

Aragorn is awake. He sits up and gathers himself closer to the hot ashes where the fire has faded away. We're surrounded by the mystical twilight that wraps the world before every break of dawn and after every sunset, the blue and grey haze that floats in the air, the moment of transition when it's not yet day or night and the universe seems to stand still.

Even before he speaks, I know he'll be gone when the daylight breaks again into the forest.

His voice is low but firm.

"Legolas. When I pass through these woods again, it'll only be to deliver Gollum for your father's guards to keep. I shall not linger."

I keep my voice steady, my face a mask of serenity as I reply.

"Why not take me with you? Ours has been a good companionship in the past, even outside my father's realm."

His eyes reveal nothing, but his answer is folded in worry.

"Such dangers may lay ahead as I have not known before. I might have to go to the very confines of Mordor. And at my return a path awaits me I have long feared to walk."

I'm feeling frustrated because I know so little of what he talks about.

"If dangers be fiercer, the better to take me with you! Two pairs of eyes are more alert, and two pairs of hands fight more forcefully, if perils should come our way."

The corners of his mouth tighten slightly and there's a ting of impatience in his tone when he replies to me.

"Legolas, I must face this task alone. There are roads you can walk with me, but to some pathways you cannot follow. No one can. And war is upon us. I'm needed elsewhere."

A fluid realisation enters me.

"I may not see you again, then?"

He looks at me thoughtfully, and this time I believe I see a glint of something new, unfamiliar in his gaze.

"I know not. I see ahead of me but darkness, a grey fog inside which I'm trying to grope my way through."

He remains silent for a moment before continuing:

"Imladris awaits. My foster father knows the time is near, and he shall soon invite the peoples of Middle-earth to hear his Council. I wish to see you there, my friend, unless it is meant to be otherwise."

On impulse I embrace him. I think he's surprised, but doesn't push me away - quite the opposite, he holds me for a long time, his body firmly pressed against mine, his warmth radiating into me. When we finally part, he looks at me gravely. My voice is steadier than I'm feeling inside as I say:

"I shall walk and fight by your side just as willingly as I have accompanied you in times of peace, should ever the day come you need me."

His hand is still on my shoulder, and a smile brightens up his weary face. He whispers in my own tongue:

"Hannon le, Legolas. Gwadoren." Thank you, Legolas. My brother.

He leans in to place a kiss on my both cheeks, an earnest, affectionate kiss - and then, on my lips. It's a continuation of the same gesture of friendship, intended as nothing but a confirmation of the bond that has grown between us. But instead of moving away his lips stay there, touching mine, frozen in time. Sooner than I know my hand has crept on the back of his head, and I'm breathing into his mouth, and I cannot tell which one of us falters first, but I realise this is no longer a brotherly kiss, but a hungry, desirous exchange I'm unwilling to break free of.

The strings between us are delicate, yet firm and demanding: run your fingers through my hair and sparks will rain along my spine, make a sound of pleading and I will kiss you deeper, resist but a little and I will burn to press you tighter to this yearning forced inside the crumbling walls of my body.

Aragorn tears himself away from me, and his face is confused and vulnerable like I haven't seen it before. I know what we've violated. A silence surrounds Evenstar of Imladris in our conversations, but I have long known of their promise to each other, of the choice they once made under the unchanging night skies. Of what should reach beyond the fates of two peoples separated from each other, beyond life and death.

We're both speechless.

He is the first to move, to break the ice that has frozen us in confusion. In silence he collects his blanket and his few carryings from the ground, drawing the hood of his cloak deep into his head so I cannot see his face. The glow of his touch still throbs in me quick and merciless and won't calm down, won't be still. Aragorn throws his pack on his shoulder and his whole body is turned towards the East, towards Mordor, towards the darkness that spreads from there like drops of blood in water. I see the steam of his breath in the morning air as he speaks to me one last time.

"Legolas..."

"Nothing has changed, Aragorn."

But even as I speak, a wind rises and sweeps over all living things on the ground, bending them, shaking them, changing the way they grow, and nothing will ever be the same again. Without looking back he walks away, taking with him the world as I've known it.

I let him go.


End file.
